


New Tricks

by Hedwig_Dordt



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Retirement, University AU, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:25:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig_Dordt/pseuds/Hedwig_Dordt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond turns forty-five, the mandatory age of retirement for a 00-agent. Now what?</p><p>Not beta'd, not brit-picked. It just ran with me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Tricks

My forty-fifth birthday is coming up. To me, that is not just a number, it’s a deadline. The mandatory retirement age for a 00-agent. I honestly never thought I’d live long enough, but here it is. And with it comes a career planning form. MI-bloody-6 is forcing me to do career planning. I glare at the form.

I enter HR with a sense of gloomy foreboding, the empty form in hand. I’m welcomed by a blonde, who sits me down with a cup of green tea.  
“Well, mr. Bond, tell me what you’re planning to do.”  
“I honestly have no idea.”  
“I assumed as much. I’ve looked over your latest assessment, and I’ve spoken to a few heads of department. I think you’d do well as a tester for Q branch.”  
“Is this some form of irony, where I get to break weapons before they go into the field?”  
“I’m completely serious. Your decades of experience are invaluable. I’ve already discussed it with head of the testing division, and she seems very keen to have you on board. But you’ll need better computer skills, so I’ve listed a few place where you might take the class. On company time of course.”  
“Pull the other one,” I try, but it turns out that I have been enrolled anyway.

On my birthday itself there is a small party, where I get a "I survived the 00-programme" mug and a speech from M. I drink a little at the party and a lot back at my flat. I wake up with a hang-over from hell.

After two weeks of classes I decide computer science is not the worst decision that MI6 has ever made for me. For years, I've been applying analysis on human behaviour, checking for tells and looking for inconsistency in words. Computers are different: there's the hardware to consider, as well as coding that underpins its processes. It has taken me some time to learn my way around its logic, but now that I’m getting the hang of it, it turns out to be fun. With Lara, as I call the head of testing now, I develop a programme to automate a particularly boring set of tests. I do apply my old skill set on my class mates: I come to class in a t-shirt and jeans, and take up watching the IT-crowd and Firefly to keep up with the conversation. They are all kids, so young and naive, but brimming with enthusiasm for their field. It's endearing, really. I bribe them with coffee and baked goods to enlist their help on the more complicated assignments and for intel on which courses I should take. The name of dr. Pearce keeps turning up. He teaches IT Security. I submit my amended study path to HR. The blonde seems relieved the plan worked.

I turn up ten minutes early for the first class of IT Security. By reputation, dr. Pearce doesn't have patience for latecomers. The man at the table in front of the smallish classroom seems almost too young to be a professor, but he is holding an attendance list so I introduce myself:  
"James Bond."  
"Doctor Pearce." He looks me over. "Ah, so you're Bond" and nods to himself. "Have a seat. We'll get started in a bit."  
I take a seat in the front row, closest to the door. Pearce notices, smirks and gets back to his paperwork as the rest of the students start dropping in. He starts class at exactly 8:58.

Pearce turns out not to be a perfect teacher: he is impatient, expects completely prepared students, and he is a strict grader. But his students, well the students that remain after two weeks, adore him. He grades fairly, assigns interesting work and runs a generally tight ship. There's no bullshitting your way out of his class, he knows his stuff. And he is a joy to watch, I add privately. Green eyes that light up with enthusiasm but go stern when you´re not working your hardest. Dark hair that seems eternally messy -but it must be a joy to run your hands through it. There's no other way to describe it: the man is gorgeous, if slightly fashion-impared. Back at my flat, with Security and Computing open in front of me, I imagine him in a proper suit. At a concert, maybe? Would his wife make him wear one? I shake my head and return to my home work. With what he wears, he's probably not married anyway. And no ring ever. I check every time we start class.

We've been given a workshop assignment, and Pearce makes a round between the computers in the lab, checking the progress of individual students. I'm setting up what I hope is a particularly vicious attack on the firewalls Pearce set up. He puts his hand on my shoulder and leans in a bit, pushing back his glasses. It shoots a jolt of electricity through me.  
"I see you have a fondness for brute force." but he smiles as he says it.  
"Not good?"  
"Just keep in mind…" he hesitates, "there's a protocol I've been working on, that might be helpful. Would you like to have a look after class?"  
"I'd love to," I say because it seems the appropriate thing to say.  
"Good", he says, "keep at it."  
The touch burns in my shoulder and I get absolutely nowhere with my set-up.

“Pearce turns out to be good fun,” I tell Lara the next day.  
“You’re quite fond of him” she observes.  
“He makes me work, that doesn’t happen with a lot of people”, I say jokingly.  
“James, your face lights up like a christmas tree when you mention him. You might be able to lie to yourself about this, but not to me. But if this is what it takes to get you to strive for a 4.0 gpa, I'm not complaining.”  
“I do not” I huff, “have a crush on my professor. He is a challenging, interesting teacher. Nothing else.”  
Larashrugs: “Keep telling yourself that. Now, I’ve been working on...”  
With that, we’re back at work.

About half-way through the course, I have to face the fact that I'm infatuated with my professor. A decade my junior, a man, and my teacher. I groan and bury my head in my hands. I try to channel my frustration into my work, and if that means waking up from dreams of nimble hands over a keyboard, well, who's to know?

To: Lara Diamon  
From: me  
Subject: fwd: Consider submitting

Hi Lara,  
I'm going to request some time off after all: I'm submitting a paper I wrote for a conference. See below.

James

Dear mr. Bond,  
I'm very pleased with your paper. In March there will be a conference on the topic. Would you consider submitting your paper? You would also be able to give a short presentation on the issue.  
Kind regards,  
Quillan Pearce

 

To: me  
From: Lara Diamon  
Subject: re: fwd: Consider submitting

Hi James,  
Your favourite prof? Well done. I'm assuming this is the paper you were working so hard on?

Time off shouldn't be a problem.  
Lara

I pass the class, with better marks than the introductory course. Probably my best marks ever.  
I enroll in Mathematics and Formal Logic, which means a different teacher. I still come to class ridiculously early.

The university registers us both for the conference, and there is even a bit of money to cover travel expenses. The evening before we leave I stand in front of my wardrobe, trying to figure out what to pack for three days of conference and two evenings where I have no idea of what we will be doing. I settle on four button downs, two suits and two pullovers. In a dash of inspiration I add condoms and lube to my shaving kit. I avoid wondering what Pearce is packing right now.

The next morning, I arrive at the train station to find my professor waiting for me.  
“Good morning, mr. Pearce” I greet him.  
“You passed my class, you can call me Quillan by now. Besides, you're about a decade older than me. If you're comfortable with first names, of course.”  
“Good morning, Quillan.” I smile as it rolls of my tongue. “And in that case, call me James.”  
“Good morning James.”

In the evening, I am celebrating my first successful conference talk at the bar with a few other attendees, including Pearce. Quillan. I'm slightly drunk on the attention my talk has garnered, as well as several beers. I return with a new round of drinks for the four people left in the lobby, and sit down next to Quillan. My heart skips a beat as he makes space for me. I've consciously kept my distance from him, but my resolve is crumbling under success, desire and alcohol. The topic of the conversation has turned to partners. Three of them have partners, but Quillan shakes his head:  
“No, I'm afraid not. Never met the right man.”  
The attention turns to me: “And you? I'm sure you have women at your feet every step”, one of the women says.  
“It's not like that.” I shrug.  
“Not interested in women?” she asks.  
“Bisexual,” I admit. From the corner of my eye, I notice Quillan perk up a little. Wait, what? But the conversation flows on. In the course of the hour that follows, the rest of the conference goers leaves one by one. I decide that if I don’t do this now, I’m not sure I’ll get another chance. I lean into him and say: “Thank you for taking me here”. His pupils dilate. I move in to kiss him, gently at first, but when I feel his hunger, I let go and give in. After some brilliant kissing, he breaks the kiss:  
“We really shouldn’t do this.”  
“Do you want to?”  
“Yes of course. But that’s not...I am... you are...” he stumbles.  
“As you correctly pointed out yesterday morning, I’m about a decade older. You’ve graded my papers, I passed your class. We’re not in a teacher-student relationship.”, I reasonably point out, “We’re consenting adults -or at least I am.” I look at him as earnestly as I can manage. “Can we please take this further in my room?”  
The last bit of tension disappears from his frame, as he takes my wrist, steals a kiss and says “Yes.”


End file.
